


I would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty

by Lomonte



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multiple POV's, Past Child Abuse, Swearing, Thomas Barrow centered, bogus medical stuff because uhhh were talking about wings here, everything is the same except the things i dont like and also everyone has wings au, graphic depiction of attempted suicide and aftermath, historical inaccuracies lets get SICKENING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonte/pseuds/Lomonte
Summary: Wings can tell you a lot about a person. Their personality, their state of mind, their relationships- it is like an autobiography on one's back.That's why Thomas Barrow didn't particularly mind he didn't have them.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & Phyllis Baxter, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 36
Kudos: 150





	1. Fair Employers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thomasbarrowlesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasbarrowlesbian/gifts).



> FOLKS. my baby monstrosity is here. Starting with jsut a prologue and will post chapter one where things speed up very soon. A little eh about this opening, but you know, beginnings are always difficult and all that. Please enjoy.

**Prologue **  


“Carson!” Lord Grantham greeted Charles with cheer as he stepped into the great hall.

Lord Grantham was wearing his tweed coat and hat; ready to go outside and walk Isis in the bright autumn weather. He was stretching his left wing a bit, showing off the layers of deep blue feathers. Clearly the valet had brushed them up this morning; they all fell in neat rows, shining impeccably.

“Milord,” Charles greeted him back with a nod, “I was wondering if I may discuss some concerns regarding the hiring of the new hall boys.”

Lord Grantham smiled as he put on his gloves.

“Nothing too serious, I hope. It’s too nice a day for it.”

Charles quickly assured him that no, it was nothing serious, it was just very unusual.

Lord Grantham did give him his full attention at that, observing him with slightly squinted eyes.

“Well, pray tell. You have got me curious.”

Charles tried to not fidget with his hands behind his back, for it was unbecoming a butler.

“I have conducted interviews with many applicants, and I think I have made up my mind, but I did see it fit to ask for your permission first, milord.”

It was highly irregular to ask a lord for approval about the hiring of staff, let alone for a hall boy. All this was entrusted to the butler, so lord Grantham looked at him surprised.

“What on earth for?” he asked, “What, is it an Irishman? Because I would have no reservations about hiring an Irishman.”

And Charles almost wanted to protest. He was old-fashioned, but not _that_ old-fashioned.

“No, milord, nothing of the sort. It’s of a more… delicate matter,” were the words he decided on.

“You see, there’s been an application of a young man, fifteen years of age, and I think he would do excellent, but there is something which I thought best to run through your lordship first.”

Lord Grantham gestured him to continue.

“He has asked if it was possible for a hall boy to work his way up to footman, and I haven’t given him an answer yet-”

Lord Grantham interrupted him, a bit impatient, “Well, of course he could make his way up to footman! As they all can.”

Charles decided to cut to the chase.

“He doesn’t have wings, milord,” and he tried not to sound blunt.

And lord Grantham did go quiet at that, and he looked very surprised.

“That’s why I wanted to ask for permission first,” he continued, “since he could be representing the household in the future.”

“Huh,” was all lord Grantham had to say for a moment. He frowned and pursed his lips as he considered it all.

“Are you sure that he doesn’t have wings? He could be binding them,” he suggested.

But Charles knew he didn’t have wings. The boy had made the mistake to wear a jacket of cheap fabric, too thin and tight.  
Charles had commented on it and he had turned bright red. Charles had told him he should be more discreet in the future, especially if he ever were to work for and represent a fine house like this. He told him to make sure to layer enough fabric to keep the empty space between his shoulder blades as much a mystery as he could. The young man had nodded, embarrassed.

“I am certain, milord.”

Lord Grantham nodded, pursing his lips.

“There is always the possibility of them growing back,” he offered delicately, more a question than a statement.

Charles gave him a nod, “Of course, Milord,” and he hoped he would leave it at that.

For a moment Charles feared lord Grantham would let his curiosity get the better of him and start asking more questions, but the man just nodded again, moving his head from side to side as he mulled it over.

“Well,” he declared after a moment, “I see no reason why not.”

He clasped his gloved hands together.

“We try to be fair employers, and if he is suitable and capable in all other aspects he should be able to climb the ladder just like the rest of them.”

It was clearly his final say, he had made up his mind. Lord Grantham never had been too selective in the uniformity of his staff, long as they work hard and diligently. In this particular case, Charles agreed.

“Very well. Enjoy your walk milord.”

As if on cue the Labrador waiting for his master to go outside became impatient and started yapping. Lord Grantham chuckled and tried to calm the dog down. Occupied, he didn’t look at Carson as he remarked it was a nice day for it, and quickly walked out the door.

“Indeed, milord.”

And Charles Carson went on with his day, writing the young man the good news, and that he was expected the following week. Thomas Barrow had arrived a week later with his hair slicked back and a tightly wrapped back.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all liked this very very short prologue, see you in a few days! lmk what ur thinking!!


	2. Communication Doesn't Come Naturally To Some But The Sunday Magazine Comes In Every Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonderings, black things and cups of tea.

The Barrow household was usually quiet. Phyllis could always come with Margaret and stay over at her house. Mr Barrow was often in the shop at the end of the street, and Mrs Barrow was either at the marketplace or sitting on the bench at the back of the house, knitting and sewing or simply staring at what lay in front of her.  
Margaret's little sister would usually be running around when they arrived. She was the one that (frantically) kept the house clean, while Margaret did the cooking.

And then there was of course the youngest of the house, the one Phyllis always so loved to see. 

Today was no different; Phyllis had been so excited to visit the Barrows today that they had flown to Margaret's home, a true race, even though she could her hear parents chastising her in her head about it the whole way. 

_“How unbecoming of a lady.”_

_“Phyllis, love, you’re not a child anymore.”_

_“Is it an emergency? No? Then get your feet on the ground, young lady!”_

She didn’t care, it was beautiful spring weather, and her parents weren’t there to see. Plus, she won the race against Margaret, who had caught up with her right before reaching the house, panting and red in the cheeks. 

“You’re bloody fast,” she had cursed, and Phyllis and cringed at the swear.

Margaret knocked on the door, and as soon as her sister opened it, Phyllis dashed into the living room where the crib stood, barely containing her excitement as she bumped her wing into the doorframe. She was still getting used to the size.

“Hello, love,” she cooed as she bent forward to pick up the baby.

“Have we been behaving well today?” Thomas just babbled at her, clearly happy to see her familiar face, and reached out to touch the gold of her wings which he had always been captivated by. 

Margaret walked past her to change the linen covering his little mattress. 

“I’ve been told he’s been a right nuisance today, the little cad.” 

Phyllis had always wondered where she had learned such words. She had known them even when they had become friends a few years ago in school, when they had been eight years old.

When Phyllis had parroted them at the dinner table, her mother had chased after her with a wooden spoon.

Phyllis gasped in pretend shock, looking at the squirming baby in her hands.

“No! You? the sweetest thing on the face of the earth?! I refuse to believe it.” 

Thomas laughed a little at that, but seemed distracted by other things as he put his fist in his mouth, a little disgruntled suddenly. 

“Are we teething?” Phyllis squealed in delight, “Margaret, I think the lad’s having his first teeth!” 

Margaret finished changing the crib and walked over to them to gently take his cheeks into her hands and look at his gums.

“Why, Phyllis I think you’re right.” She ruffled her brother’s hair. “What a big boy you’re becoming. In a while you’ll grow your first feathers!”

And Margaret had been right, as she so often was. Just a few weeks later two little bumps appeared on Thomas' back, and a few weeks later than that, fluffy feathers started covering the space between his little shoulder blades. They were light brown and greyish, as they always were with wee babes, but it didn’t take long for them to grow and change, and by the time Thomas was two years old they were in proportion with his form and bright yellow. 

They often changed so early in life, of course, with kids still trying to find their place in the world.

Phyllis’ wings had settled on a bright gold quite early in life though, and she hadn’t seen them change since. 

Of course as she got older, white feathers from stress started replacing some of the golden ones, but the size of them never really changed, and she was glad for it. They had always been as small and as lean as they could be, while still being in proportion with her body. Her dad had found it _‘such a shame’_ for he had found the gold of her wings magnificent, but she didn’t really care much. It was practical to be able to fold her wings to be as small as her frame, and even though the gold could be seen as flashy, the size of her wings made it less obvious. 

She spends more and more time in the Barrow household now that she was being paid to take care of their youngest, for he was an active and rambunctious lad, and the family hadn’t the time to look after him all day.

Phyllis tries to ignore how Mrs Barrow comes home less and less often (unless one of the children fall ill, that is) and how Mr Barrow brings home cheap alcohol every day. Margaret is still her best friend, and Mr and Mrs Barrow are still kind to her, she just pities them something awful. 

Phyllis’ bond with Thomas is a strong one, and when his wings finally settle on a soft yellow-green tint, there is a sheen of gold reflecting off the feathers, when the sun hits just right. 

* * *

Thomas was allowed to fly for much longer then his sibling were, or Phyllis for that matter. It had always made Margaret furious. She would go on and on about the unfairness of it all in her letters to her, how Thomas was almost fourteen and still racing over the fields, with dad even cheering him on.  
Mr Barrow had been very enthusiastic about Thomas’ athletic competences. Not only did he allow Thomas to fly to and fro, he even encouraged it, boasting about how Thomas could be a sportsman would he get the proper training.

Phyllis remembers Mr Barrow sitting at the table next to a very young Thomas, smacking him on the shoulder after he’d won the fast flying competition in school. 

“So you’ve got a talent after all,” he had said, and Phyllis had been uncomfortable with the tone used as Thomas frowned.

“I’m good with clocks da,” he’d responded after swallowing his food.

“Not yet, you are,” the older Barrow had huffed, and the conversation had moved on; Thomas put out.

His father was apparently still sold on the idea, she gathered reading Margaret’s letters, which were funny and vivid, and they made Phyllis feel homesick not only for _her_ home, but for the Barrow’s too. She never got to see the house again, and she was saddened to see fewer and fewer Margaret’s letters come in, until they finally stopped coming altogether. She missed Margaret something fierce, she had been one of the best friends she’d ever had, and she missed little Thomas too.

At first she had thought about them daily, but years went by and life went on, messy and painful, and though she didn’t forget about them, she thought about them less and less.

When she did though, she wondered what Margaret was up to, with her quick wit and sailors mouth, and she thought of Thomas, and if his wings were still reflecting gold in the sunlight.

* * *

When she sees him again, years later, a lifetime later (but still Thomas, still hers) she tries not to stare at the empty space on his back. She fails, but he doesn’t catch her either, so now every time his back is turned to her and she knows he won't turn around, she stares, and feels a little ill.

* * *

John Bates’ wings were a sandy colour, with bright red feathers dotting the edges. They had always changed a lot, even in his twenties the colours had switched from reds to greens, to purples, until finally settling on soft, sandy hues. The red spots were relatively new, they had appeared after the war.

Maybe the war had changed him, or perhaps it was to signal to others that even though he had a limp, he still wasn’t one to mess with. Overcompensation, a friend had jested once.

Of course there had been white feathers too, stress physically leaving a mark like it did most servants and working class people. Thankfully they were pretty hard to spot against the light colours of his other feathers.

When he had been sent to prison, and subsequently Anna had been arrested like some sick joke, grey feathers had started to pop up alongside. Anna’s wings had had too many whites and greys in them too, at the same time, so they had always matched, in a way. 

He had gotten to know Anna’s wings to be pastel blues and decided greens, matte and soft. John had been fascinated with them the first moment he saw them. As they’d started spending more time together the green of her wings had darkened a bit and had started matching the pattern of his. His red feathers had pastelized a bit in return, and the feathers closest to the ground started sporting blue ends.

He had always paid attention to people wings, feeling it was a good indicator of one’s personality and mind, so he had instantly noticed that Thomas hid his.

He had not commented on it, hadn’t even glanced at his back while the soon-to-be-replaced-valet had glared daggers at him. Fair enough, he was taking over his job, but what an unpleasant first impression. 

He didn’t judge Thomas’ wingless back, he judged him on his behaviour, which was absolutely atrocious, and John didn’t suffer men like him. Only after _getting to know_ the younger man did he judge him on his wing-situation. It was just another thing he couldn’t wrap his head around.

The only people he could think of that hid their wings were devout religious, covering them out of religious piety, or people in unrequited love, covering them so others wouldn’t see how the colours matched and gave them away. But that tended to be quite obvious, so these days dyes, even though frowned upon, were more common. And naturally soldiers, as it was far too dangerous to have the appendages be exposed and vulnerable in an active warzone.

John had of course found out that Thomas was none of these things. He never went to church with them on Sundays, and there was no one in the house he was even close to kind to (except for O’ Brien) so he wasn’t hiding them for that reason either.  
It had started to bother John. It was _another_ thing Thomas was holding close to his chest, another thing he wasn’t honest about. He had wondered multiple times how Thomas got them to lay so smooth and flat under his jacket, but he supposed the modern binders were just getting more sophisticated.

Anna had talked to him about it once, when things were simpler and times were kinder.  
They had been sitting at the dining table late in the evening, just the two of them. Neither had wanted to leave, enjoying each other’s company. Anna had been mending one of lady Mary’s dresses, the opening for her left wing had ripped. She had talked about how the colours Mary’s wings were starting to change with a mischievous look on her face. She told him how their usual wine red feathers were starting to lighten up a bit, almost turning a dark pink. She had been very excited about this, because Matthew Crawley had sported elegant mauve ones, and Anna swore those were darkening in turn. She had gone on and on about how beautiful they were, and John couldn’t not compliment Anna’s wings too.

She had blushed at that, and waved him off, saying that everyone had beautiful wings in their own right. John had snorted at that, thinking of Thomas’ mystery wings. 

“Thomas clearly disagrees.” 

Anna looked up from her sewing to glance at him.

“Why do you say that?” 

John shrugged, “I mean he’s clearly hiding them for some reason. At first I thought he might have a valid one for it, now I just think it’s vanity. He probably just doesn’t want us to see them because he doesn’t like them.”

Anna had put her needle down for a moment at that, frowning thoughtfully. 

“What do you think they look like then?” she asked, “I can’t say I haven’t wondered myself. I always imagined them shiny and black, like his hair I suppose.”

John chuckled a little at that, but had to refute her, “I don’t think he would hide them if he had those,” because that is exactly what Thomas would want, intimidating and sleek.

John's voice turned a bit venomous continuing, “he probably has those shabby grey things.”

He folded his arms over his chest, huffing. 

Anna’s wings opened a little at that and she looked a bit concerned, and a little accusing maybe, “I hope not.”

And of course kind, smart Anna was right, and John felt a bit ashamed in turn. You don't wish grey feathers on someone, even if they’re a pain. It wasn’t truly uncommon to see a grey feather here in there, (John had seen grey feathers on lots of men in Boer war) but one had to make sure not to get too many. The women (for it most of the time it was them) who got too many got sent away kicking and screaming to cure either their melancholy or hysteria. His father had also once told him a story about a neighbour who had hung himself, and that when they found him days later, there was nothing but grey feathers laying at his feet. It made him shudder to think about it.

He had only ever seen one person with truly grey wings; or what was left of those wings. It had been a pitiful sight to behold, as the woman had lain on the dirty city streets weeping and screeching. 

“No you’re right of course,” John sighed, “but I don't think you need to worry about that with Thomas,” he added with a little grin, comparing the cocky footman to the others. Anna smiled at that. 

“No, I don’t think we do.”

And they had talked some more about everything and nothing, until she had started yawning, and they made their way to bed. John would not lie and say sleep came easy that night. The combination of the butterflies Anna made him feel, and with the image of Thomas hiding grey wings made him restless. He eventually did of course fall asleep, and thankfully his dreams had only featured Anna and her blue and green wings illuminated by the sunlight. 

* * *

Of course Elsie hadn’t asked. She was curious, she had wondered, but she never asked. Wings, even though so on display, were terribly personal things and it simply wasn’t done to just start talking about them to a person you didn’t know well. Compliment them, maybe, but to talk about ‘why’s’... 

So she hadn’t brought it up, ever. She wouldn’t judge Thomas and she would treat him the same as she did the rest of the staff. 

He had made that pretty difficult though, and soon enough, she found herself not really caring anymore. Young Thomas had misbehaved, schemed and lied, and even though Elsie cared for everyone under Downton’s roof, she found it better to ignore Thomas as best as she could, for her own sanity. Not that he would ever open up to her anyway. The only one he ever opened up to to her knowledge was Miss O’Brien, the rest of the house he seemed to despise. He had treated Elsie better than he did most (even though that hardly meant a lot) but he had always been frigid to her, and so had she in return. Some people just didn’t get along with the world, and she wouldn’t put her energy into someone who didn’t want it. They would live under the same roof without bothering each other, but that would be the extent of their relationship. Neutral. 

Or so she had thought.

Because life surprises and over the years they had grown closer, he had showed her vulnerability and she had shown him compassion in return. They’d started speaking more often and she found herself seeking him out when she wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t mince their words. She’d roll her eyes at him, or tell him to watch his language, but she found him to be delightful when she was in the mood for it. In return he did little things for her behind her back, like leaving the Sunday Magazine at her door or remembering she liked her tea with milk and half a spoon of sugar, and if she would appear too run down and tired to him, he would ask if there was something he could do. He wasn’t an easy man to care for, he wasn’t an easy man to _like,_ but she had some experience with those, and she knew he would let her in more and more, in due time. Who knows, he might one day even tell her why he flinched when people came to close to his empty back.

But of course she had been too late, too caught up in everything except _him_ when he had been silently screaming out for help in ways that in retrospect seemed offensively obvious.

She had been too late, and now he could never tell her like she imagined, sincere and because he wanted her to know, because he _trusted_ her.

But Thomas hadn’t even trusted her enough to tell her something was terribly, achingly _wrong_ , and now she had to find it all out because he had seen a future only in slit wrists.

Her first instinct had been to get him out of the bathtub. Out of the red water, out of the porcelain almost as white as his face, out of this death-trap. She refused to let that thing be his last resting place, no, not even if _he_ had seen it fit to be so.  
Sometimes people didn’t know what was best for them. 

They had pulled him out of the bathtub, clumsy and frantic, and working on adrenaline and determination which was why they hadn’t even noticed it yet.

They carefully put him down on a large blanket that Anna had laid down on the floor. It immediately soaked up the water clinging to Thomas' frame, the white turning a sickly pink. 

Elsie instantly grabbed his hands, holding up his arms to try and stop the blood flow while she and Miss Baxter started wrapping his wrists with bandages that Anna had brought too. 

Elsie hadn’t realized what was wrong, tunnel vision on his wrists and face (too pale, too still), but Anna had gasped and stuttered, and Miss Baxter had stopped short in her tracks. Andy was still holding Thomas’ shoulders, and that is where the problem lay. 

Instead of the wings that should be there, even if grey or so tiny they could be folded inside his undershirt and not visible when he was laying in that bathtub, there was only smooth skin and emptiness empty air between his shoulder blades. 

“Wha- Where-” Miss Baxter was the first to speak, usually quiet and reserved. She scooted to Andy’s side, carefully pushing Thomas’ shoulder up while Andy followed lead. Deep lines of despair appeared on her face as she confirmed their dreadful suspicions with a stiff shake of her head. 

She let go of his shoulder and Andy gingerly lowered him back onto the blanket. 

There was a moment of silence, and Elsie looked at Miss Baxter to see if she really hadn’t known, because she was so close to Thomas, because she _should_ have known- but her face was ashen and grave, and although she looked like she hadn’t truly been surprised, she hadn’t known either, and that was absolutely unforgivable. That no one in this house had known, that he had trusted no one enough to tell them; and Elsie could kick herself for not asking, for not being there enough. 

Anna broke the short silence with a choked dry sob, she wasn’t crying, but she was in shock, and she searched for Elsie’s gaze, eyes wide. 

“Did you- did you know?” And Elsie didn't know if she was talking about his mental state or his wings. 

She shook her head, “No, I did not, dear.”

And Anna’s eyes shot to Miss Baxter’s and she shook her head too, and for some reason this was just a little too much for young Andy as he slapped his hand over his mouth to breathe heavily through his nose. Elsie wanted to say something to the shocked and young lot, but there was truly nothing to be said, not yet, not when Thomas was still laying here, bleeding out from self-inflicted wounds which could kill him yet.

Thankfully, Dr Clarkson chose that moment to run in, bless the man, and the rest was a blur.

Elsie remembered answering the doctors question, ‘ _Miss Baxter found him little over twenty minutes ago’, ‘I’ve wrapped his wrists as best as I could’, ‘He did it in the bathtub with his shaving razor’, ‘No I don't know what happened to his wings’._

She remembered telling Andy he should get out, and even though he reluctantly and slowly moved from his friend’s side, she heard him sprint down the hall when he was out of sight.

Anna left too, maybe feeling like she was intruding, or simply not being able to stand the sight of Dr Clarkson sewing up Thomas’ wrists.

Miss Baxter stayed, of course, sitting at Thomas’ side, whispering and pushing back his hair, stroking his cheek. 

Elsie wanted to do something too, but she was holding Thomas' hand while Clarkson swiftly and meticulously put needle to skin, and she was afraid that if she would let go of it it would be the last time.

After a stretch of time, and many sutures later, a faintly green Andy was called back into the room. They moved Thomas to his bed as quickly and carefully as they could, using the blankets as a sort of makeshift stretcher. 

Elsie and Andy were asked out of the room as Dr Clarkson and Miss Baxter put Thomas in dry clothes. 

So Elsie stood there, outside the door, alone and miserable as her hands started shaking as the adrenaline ebbed away and the shock kicked in. She waited until she couldn’t anymore and walked downstairs, where they didn’t know.

She told Charles who had asked what the good doctor was doing here, because she couldn’t lie, but she didn’t wait for him to react, because she didn’t want to see it. 

Numb, she sat in her chair in her office, until Dr Clarkson knocked on her door to tell her Thomas was alive. And it didn’t matter that it was barely and that he wasn’t out of the woods yet and that Dr Clarkson would rather have him in the hospital, he was _alive_ and Elsie knew he would pull through, he had to, she would help him. 

She thanked the doctor briefly and not enough, because she had to get back upstairs. Before that she did have the mind to get a cup of tea for Miss Baxter and herself.

Phyllis barely acknowledged her when she came in, too busy watching over the still form in bed, and she quietly thanked Elsie when she put the cup on the little dresser next to her. They sat in silence for a while. Elsie read a book, and Phyllis sewed a dress for her ladyship when she wasn’t murmuring to Thomas and touching his face. Both didn’t want to leave Thomas for they did not want him to wake up alone. Not after what he did. 

“He didn’t tell me,” Phyllis said, voice sad but even. Elsie didn’t know which of the two options she was referring to, but it was probably both. 

“It’s not your fault," Elsie answered, not really knowing what else she could say.

Phyllis just bit her lip and held Thomas’ hand and it was silent once more. 

Andy came with tea an hour later, took the empty cups, asked if they needed anything and left.

Three hours after that Thomas woke up. His breathing went from deep and even to short and fast, and Phyllis was there instantly, holding his face and telling him it was okay. Thomas just cried, too tired to do anything else than sob miserably with eyes closed, leaning into Phyllis touch, who wiped every silver trail that the tears left on his cheeks and temples. Elsie held his hand until he was asleep once more. 

Together with Andy she moved a spare bed to the room for Phyllis to sleep in, knowing she would not want to leave his side, knowing Thomas should not be in his own company for a very long while, and she went to bed, knowing work would go on as always in the house tomorrow. 

* * *

_‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me it was all wrong? Why didn’t you tell me when I care for you so?’_

Phyllis’ head was pounding while questions repeated themselves over and over again. She rubbed her thumb over his hand and stroked his cheek what felt like every five minutes. It made her anxious to let go of him.

It was late, but she couldn’t sleep and it didn’t matter. She was comfortable in her chair, her tea was still hot because Andy kept coming in and bringing it, and even though Mrs Hughes had left an hour ago, she had left her her collection of old Sunday Magazines for her to read. 

She moved her hand from his cheek to his hand again, and flipped open a magazine with the other. She couldn’t concentrate, not really, but she looked at the pictures, and when she saw an illustration of a woman wearing a red dress with green-yellow wings behind her she squeezed his hand so tight her knuckles turned white.

* * *

Anna had told him to not wait for her to go home, that she needed to finish something, but her cheeks were red and her eyes were wide, so John had asked if there was something wrong.

She had nodded (they couldn’t lie to each other, not anymore) but she asked him to leave it alone, please, so he had. He trusted her and went home and he waited. A few hours later he had seen her run home through the window, and when he had opened the doors to greet her in, she had collided into him with force, knocking him over a bit as she buried her face in his chest. 

“What is wrong? What happened?”

She shook her head against his clothes. 

“I can’t tell,” she told him, breathless from running.

“You can tell me anything.”

“It’s not mine to tell.”

He hadn’t understood, but she was weeping and it wasn’t for herself (thank god), so they moved inside. She was trembling and he wrapped her in a blanket even though it was summer, and gave her a glass of water. 

“I want to tell you,” she said after a while, “but he’ll never forgive me.” 

John nodded, but knew that she should; she was practically bursting with emotion. 

“Then just tell me a little bit.” 

And her lips started to tremble again as she looked him in the face and her face scrunched into something unbecoming and tears started falling once more.

He held her hand, she squeezed back. 

“He doesn’t have them,” she said in between rhythmic sobs.

John didn’t understand, and Anna must’ve noticed because she clarified with one word to slot it all in place, “Thomas.”

And John had asked her how she knew, why she knew, why she was so upset, but she had held her tongue after that. 

“It isn’t mine to tell,” she repeated, “He’ll never forgive me.” 

So they ate, and she calmed down, and they went to bed early, and he hugged her as tight as he could.

* * *

Recovery took a long time, it never really stopped, but that was okay; Phyllis had all the time in the world and everyday her patience paid off.

It paid off every time he smiled, genuine, every day he didn’t try to put razor to skin, every time he talked when something was bothering him; and later it was every letter she received when he was away and she couldn’t keep an eye out on him. 

She had been ecstatic when she heard he would return to Downton, as butler no less, and the next time she saw him she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. He hugged back. It was very unlike them, but they were very, very happy to see each other again. 

Thomas was still Thomas, and even though he was head of the Downton staff now, he still clashed with people. He still mistrusted and made unfortunate comments, but he was trying, and that was what mattered, there were now enough people who cared for him. He had Mrs Hughes, Andy and in some ways Anna on his side, and the new staff adored him. 

Thomas had less to defend these days, and fights left him easily, which was good for his downstairs reputation, but it worried Phyllis. She wanted him to not-fight because he didn’t feel the need, not because he didn’t have the energy to do so.

He was tired and it showed, yes, but he was happier too. His work kept him from his thoughts during the day, and in the evenings he had her, Elsie and Andy to talk to. He enjoyed and excelled in his position as butler, and the family appreciated his work. And even though Phyllis knew it wasn’t enough, knew that he deserved the world even if it wasn’t ready for him, for now it was enough. For now he was here with her, safe and content. 

* * *

They had made a pact the lot of them, in the days after his attempt, when he wasn’t crying and cursing and mourning. 

_When you feel the black thing in your chest squeeze again, you come to us._

He had nodded, earnestly and afraid. Since then he had kept his promise. 

Sometimes he would just come and sit next to Phyllis when she was working on something, holding her hand under the dining table so no one could see. It was always Phyllis’ eyes he searched for when his shoulders tensed or when he couldn’t eat. 

Andy came in to help him shave sometimes. 

Elsie didn’t get picked much, which she understood. Phyllis and Thomas were closer than she could ever be. She still played her part, he still trusted her and that was all that mattered.

And because he didn’t come to her often, it was a surprise when he came to her office once, late in the evening, shaking and pale and frantic. He couldn’t find Phyllis, and he was having a bad time, so she had sat him down, gave him tea (the remedy for all life’s sorrows) and they had talked. 

She had asked him what he was thinking about that was bothering him so. He had calmed the shaking in his hands and told her he was thinking about his family, his father, actually, and that he had received a letter from them, for the first time in many years. 

“My father…” His voice was smooth as he shook his head a little and stared at something behind her, “He died.” 

“I’m so sorry,” was all she could think to say, because she was. 

He shook his head a little and looked down at the teacup in his lap. 

“Don’t be.”

Elsie smiled with pursed lips and reached out to squeeze his un-gloved hand. He didn’t flinch. 

“Don’t worry about work, even butlers get days off. I will talk to her ladyship to get you some days off to travel home.”

She didn’t want Thomas to worry about logistics, not when he had so many other things on his mind.

Thomas just shook his head.

“That won't be necessary,” he said with a little smile and he sounded so sorrowful she wanted to hug him, “They don’t want me at the funeral.” 

Elsie didn’t know what to say to that. Frowning indignantly, she was torn between berating his family and hugging him tight. She was shocked most of all. How could his own family…

After seeing so many families coping with the loss of their sons in the war, she couldn’t help but abhor his family. With so many parents wishing for their sons back, they had decided to give up on a wonderful one? One that survived that bloody war? 

She wanted to ask him why, but she didn’t because she shouldn’t. He came to her for comfort, not to be interrogated. Thomas didn’t look her in the face, instead his gaze was on her hand holding his. He raised his eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact he died a month ago.”

And with that the dam broke, and his face crumpled and his shoulders fell and she swiftly swept forward to hug his face to her chest. He let her. 

“I just,” his voice was thick with grief and muffled by the fabric of her dress, “I always thought he would reach out in the end, say _something._ ” 

And Elsie felt such pain for him. To still long for a happier ending with his father, to still hold out hope for a bad man. 

So she had rubbed circles on his (empty) back and told him she understood, and after a moment he had gently pushed her off and wiped his tears, apologizing. The front of her frock was wet but it didn’t matter at all.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” she told him, “I always want you to come to me when something’s wrong.” 

And he had looked touched, and smiled at her, a small pitiful thing. It was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know why I even care,” he started, looking drained but better than before. 

Her mother had always told her sometimes people just needed to have a good cry to feel okay again. Thomas didn’t look okay yet, but he looked better, so maybe her mother had been onto something. 

“I only have bad memories of the man. He was hardly a father to me.”

“Then he was a fool and didn’t deserve you,” she spoke stern but soft, and he seemed to appreciate it. He took his tea from the table and handed her her cup too. She took it and clasped her hands around it to warm them. 

“I don’t think I even would’ve gone to the funeral had I been invited to be honest. It would’ve been too painful, I think.” 

“I understand. It would’ve been nice to be invited,” she guessed and he nodded.

And then he frowned and he chewed his lip, considering, and searched Elsie’s face for a moment, who suddenly daren’t speak. Another second passed and he took a breath. 

“He clipped my wings when I was fifteen.” 

It took a while for her to make sense of the words, blinking twice before they started making sense.

She almost dropped her teacup in her lap, but she quickly scrambled to put it down on the table beside them. Too hard, Thomas flinched. She couldn’t pay any mind to it, bile was rising up her throat, and she clasped a hand over her mouth. She looked at the empty space where feathers should frame his shoulders, thought of the old white scars she had seen that day, thought of fifteen year old Thomas, young and green and looking for Charles’ approval. Someone had _hurt_ him. Someone had touched his _wings_ which should be sacred and venerable and _his father had cut them off._ Loved ones should make your wings colour and grow, not ruin them.

Thomas was still looking at her, unsure and cautious as if waiting for her verdict, so she pulled herself together for his sake. She felt like crying for the first time in a long while, to have a good cry from frustration, because her mother had really been onto something there. Something must’ve shown on her face, because Thomas took _her_ hand now (for the first time she could remember) as if she needed comforting, not the other way around. 

But all that she saw in his face was _old_ pain. He had already accepted what had happened in some way; had already made peace with it. 

“He was a drunk, and an angry one at that. My sister said he hadn’t always been, but he had all my life. Especially that night.” She listened raptly, even though her head was still spinning. Thomas was opening up to her, and it was the most important thing. 

“Found me kissing another boy,” and he smiled a little at that, as if he was simply caught doing something naughty which had resulted in a slap, but nothing more. Elsie wished it was that kind of story.

“He dragged me to the shop, drunk and raging,” his eyes did drift off a little at that, his face went a little more haunted, “He took me by the wings so I couldn’t run off and he- he broke one.” 

He sucked in his cheeks and nodded to himself, “Passed out from the pain. Next thing I know my dad is holding me, crying and cursing like a madman. My back hurt so bad, and he kept apologizing.”

Thomas scrunched his eyebrows signalling he still didn’t understand. 

“He always did that. He’d throw me around and rough me up and then…” He bit his lip. “Then he’d just cry.”

It was silent for a moment, Thomas pensive, and Elsie trying not to picture a young, bruised Thomas being out-cried by his father. 

“T’ was different this time, though. He was hysterical,” he recounted, eyes glazed. 

“When he noticed I woke up he told me to run away as far as I could. That I could never tell my mother, that I should never return.” His voice had broken on the word mother, but he soldiered on.

“Said that I shouldn’t dare upset her with my sins.”

Elsie squeezed his hand again and it grounded him a bit, eyes darting to her face, giving her a pained smile.

“He gave me enough money to survive a week or two and send me the address to a house where I could work in service. I did as he said. I worked there for a few months until I came here. I never returned.” And that was the end of it.

Elsie didn’t know what to do with herself, she barely trusted her own voice in the face of such history. There were questions nagging at her, but she wondered if it was the right time. Then again, he was opening up to her now, which was rare, so maybe she should take this opportunity and try to get to know him better, try to understand more. It couldn’t really get any worse than this. 

She swallowed, twice, and squeezed his hand again. 

“Thomas,” she began, and her voice didn’t shake, but it wasn’t quite what it usually was, “Did they never…?” 

He looked at her sadly, like old grief. She let out a breath. 

“They never grew back.”

And even though he tried to say the words softly so not to upset her, there was something resigned in his voice now. A tone she didn’t like at all, something very deep, and very sad. 

“Don’t think they ever will,” he cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes, “That happens. Maybe the… stress of it all was too much. I guess it’s just one of those things.” 

Elsie had heard of people losing their wings, but in their stories they usually grew back after a while. That was the wondrous thing about wings, they were so connected to the psyche, to emotions and love and life, that they bloomed even after the most horrid of circumstances, if only the wing bearer is loved and loves in return. It didn’t have to me romantic love per se, and that is why it pained her they hadn’t grown back again. Weren’t they doing enough? Were _they_ enough at all? 

Then again, Thomas could be right. Sometimes the trauma of losing your wings was enough for them to never return. She knew a man, the brother of the husband of one of her sisters actually, who lost his wings in a bombing at the front. His back had been on fire, and it had been too much. All the love in the world wouldn’t make them grow back. He had recovered, and he had a loving wife and children, he was barely haunted by the horrors he went through, but the space on his back will forever be empty as a silent monument to what he went through.

Elsie felt useless. She didn’t know what to say and she was angry at a man who had been dead for a month. There was nothing she could do to take away some of the pain of her friend in front of her, and she was _angry._

But when she looked at him, she saw she didn’t have to be. He was shaken and raw, but he wasn’t crying anymore, and he was still holding her hand, comforted by the touch. That’s really all he needed, comfort. So she sighed and smiled at him. 

“Thank you for telling me. It means a lot.” 

“Thanks for listening. It means a lot too.”

“I know.” And she did.

And for a moment it looked like he might cry again through his smile, but he didn’t, instead he sighed deeply like a weight had been lifted and then asked her about her day. 

She told him about the trouble she had had with the new maid and the book she was reading, until he started having trouble keeping his eyes open and stifled a yawn. He didn’t let go off her hand until she ordered him to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hola! so thats chapter one out of the way!  
> i think were looking at about 2 to 4 more chapters, and then i might make it a series WHO KNOWS. I've been sitting on this au for quite a time and have too many ideas for it. 
> 
> next chapter will be less Gloomy and there will be More Exciting Things afoot. and of course Thomas POV will making his debut. Planning on posting it in uhhh longer than one day but soon enough.  
> I hope that the ever-switching pov's werent too confusing, if they were, pls tell me, ill try to make it clearer in the next chapter. Any questions or suggestions are very very welcome, same as any positive comments of course. Commenting positivly or negatively on my worldbuilding is sexy. Thank you very much for reading!!!!


	3. Much Ado About Letters and Gaging the Significance of Minor Spinal Discomforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cash or Check?”: “Will you kiss me now or do we wait until later?” Note: “Check” on its own means to take a raincheck on kissing or save the kiss for another time.

Thomas dug his heels in the earth as he let his back collide with the brick wall behind him with a sigh. He patted his breast pockets, looking for his cigarettes and sneered to himself as he realized he left them in a locked drawer in his office.

The thing about trying to quit smoking was that it was a fucking wretched undertaking, and he wished he had never started stopping. He was ready to go inside and make regrettable decisions (he hadn’t touched a cigarette is two months, so that would be that down the drain) when he saw one of the royal staff walking towards him.

It was the only one he didn’t mind seeing, but he wasn’t really in the mood to talk right now, so he only greeted him with a nod and half a smile. Mr Ellis tipped his hat back at Thomas (very charming) and stopped in front of him, hands in his pockets against the chill and emerald wings folded tightly behind his back. Thomas didn’t really know what colour they were, couldn't really find a word for it. They were mostly a deep, rich green, but there was a vivid purple and blue in it too. It was like they changed every time the light shifted and Thomas was absolutely fascinated by them 

“Aren’t you cold?” 

It wasn’t the question Thomas was expecting, so it took him a second to process before assuring him. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I just went out for a smoke,” and wasn’t that ridiculous, because the other man was now looking at him amused, eyes darting to his empty hand and back to his face again, and it made him feel flushed and embarrassed. 

“I’ve been trying to quit,” he explained lamely. 

Mr Ellis just raised nodded in understanding. “Ah. My father’s been quitting for as long as I can remember,”

 _How encouraging_ , Thomas thought as the other continued.

“My mom thinks it a nasty habit. ‘S why I never got into it myself.” 

Thomas found himself smiling a little, “Well good for you. I’ve been feeling like rubbish for two months now. It’s a tough habit to break.” 

Ellis regarded him with an easy smile, but there was something in his eyes Thomas couldn’t quite decipher.

“Why are you trying to quit? Is the missus making you?”

There was only humour and genuine curiosity in his voice, but alarm bells started going off in Thomas’ head. He always felt horribly on edge when asked these simple and fairly innocent questions. They had been easier to dismiss before, but now that he was older people started asking questions, or worse, leaving suggestions.

_‘Oh, did the right girl never come along?’_

_‘Well I have a very charming niece who I’d be more than happy to introduce.’_

_‘Isn’t it a bit old-fashioned for a butler to not be married?’_

_‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get settled someday.’_

He didn’t want to make a fool of himself or give Ellis the short answer ( _none of your damn business, it is_ ) though, because he _liked_ the man.

He was funny and Thomas enjoyed their short conversations immensely. They were alike, and Mr Ellis enjoyed his company too. He must, why else was Thomas running into him every turn he made?

Then there was of course the fact that he was very handsome and utterly charming and that when he grinned at Thomas his stomach clenched uncomfortably, but that was something altogether different; something separate he wouldn’t act on because of the same reasons.

He wants Ellis as a friend, first and foremost. He wasn’t going to ruin it and he also didn’t want to risk it (again). The whole once bitten twice shy thing. 

“No, no, none of that,” he chuckled in a way he hoped sounded easy and relaxed, “It’s Mrs Hughes, actually, the housekeeper. She swears it’s bad for my health. She thinks it stinks too.” 

Mr Ellis laughed at that and Thomas wished he could bottle the sound.

“So it’s the housekeeper on your case! I’ve only met her briefly, but I understand why you see it best to do as she says.” 

Thomas smiled fondly, momentarily forgetting his misère as he thought of the housekeeper in question. 

“She means well,” because she always did.

“I’m glad,” and he said it in such a way, so warm and earnest, that Thomas found himself biting his bottom lip might he start smiling from ear to ear. 

Curiously, Ellis’ smile faltered a bit at that. He looked a bit distracted as his wings bristled and flexed behind his shoulders. It lasted no more than a second before he looked somewhere else and coughed once behind his hand. Thomas wasn’t going to think about what it meant. 

“So why are you not inside?” Ellis asked, voice smooth as always, “Is the _page of the backstairs_ getting to you?” he had clearly meant it as a joke, satirically imitating his superior’s words and voice but Thomas couldn’t laugh about it. 

He was once more reminded that he was obsolete now, that he had nothing to undertake inside the house and that no one was missing him. The family had seen him unfit, for no good reason he could think of- and then to tell him he was to be replaced by an old man with _palsy_ for crying out loud... 

So _of course_ he had told them off and slammed the door on his way out because how else was he supposed to react to that? 

God, there was a change they would hand him his reference after that stunt. Shit. Why had he stopped smoking again? 

“Is everything alright, Mr Barrow?” Mr Ellis asked cautiously, perhaps noting how his mood had soured. Thomas sighed.

“I’m not inside because I’m not needed anymore.” His tone was clipped and accusing and Mr Ellis took it the wrong way.

“I assure you it has nothing to do with you, Mr Barrow,” he assured him quickly, “It’s like this everywhere we go, the royal staff takes their duties very seriously, they’d rather do everything themselves.”

Thomas appreciated the other man’s attempt to console him, but it wasn’t about that, and he couldn’t shake his bitterness. 

“I’ve been asked to step down as butler.”

He wanted to spit the words, sneer them as viciously as he had always been able to do before, but the words were merely tinged resentful and sour. 

Mr Ellis looked surprised.

“Why?”

“Didn’t think I was up to the task, apparently.”

He kicked his heel against the brick behind him. 

“They called the old butler back, they told me today he will replace me for the duration of the visit. Wanted me to be a ‘sort of’.” He couldn’t finish their sentence because he hadn’t let them, but Ellis had gotten the gist. 

“Goodness,” he said, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

“What did you say?” 

Thomas scoffed. “I told them I’d step down as butler until they need me again,” and he almost smiled on the last words, because god, he had been absolutely ridiculous.

“Slammed the door on my way out,” and at this he did grin a little. He wouldn’t lie and say it hadn’t felt good to walk out.

Mr Ellis looked at him in wonder.

“You did not,” he breathed, corners of his mouth curling upwards. 

“You aren’t to be sacked, I hope,” and they both should’ve sobered up at that but there was something in the air that made them act like something akin to schoolboys. Thomas just shrugged and grinned, as if he didn’t care. 

“I hope not, but I guess I will find out in a few days.” 

“What are you going to do until then?” 

Thomas scrunched his nose, “Well, I’m not going to help Mr Carson, that’s for sure,” he huffed and Mr Ellis snickered at this, not needing to be told that they were talking about the old-new butler. 

“Well, you can always come and complain to me,” the other man offered smoothly, and Thomas couldn’t help but say that yes, maybe he would, and he couldn’t help but notice the twinkle in Mr Ellis’ eyes as he did. 

* * *

Thomas (because it was just Thomas again, for now) walked into the dining room when everyone else had already taken their seat and at the same time Mr Ellis (the valet, if John remembered correctly) walked in.

Anna had told him they’d spend their time in York, after finding a way to get the footmen out of Downton. He had to remember to ask how Thomas had done it, later. 

Thomas sat down in his old chair at the table, and it was because John had been watching him that he noticed the contained smile the other man was wearing. Strange.

John hadn’t expected him to be in anything close to a good mood after being replaced by Mr Carson on such short notice. Maybe he had gotten over it, or maybe he was just happy he could resume his position again soon.

Or maybe he had had an enjoyable time in York. He looked at the opposite side of the table where Mr Ellis sat. He was smiling while chewing his breakfast, and he shot a quick glance at the man sitting next to John with glittering eyes. 

Ah.

* * *

“I missed you,” Thomas smiled against Richard’s lips who in return deepened the kiss.

Richard pressed his hand against the empty space between Thomas’ shoulder blades, who froze a little at it, uncomfortable. Richard merely hummed as wings slowly opened and curled themselves around their bodies, as if to substitute.

Rich broke the kiss off for a moment to catch his breath, but he didn’t pull away. Thomas was looking at him with wide eyes, his weariness melting away. Richard smiled at him encouragingly and Thomas couldn’t help but return it.

He hadn’t seen the other man in two months, and though they should get used to not spending time together for long stretches of time, Thomas couldn’t help but hate them fiercely. The letters kept them in contact, but Thomas still craved to be near him all the time.

Richard just kept smiling at him, eyes darting over his face as if to map it out and memorize it.

“I adore you so it’s ridiculous,” and Thomas huffed at this, leaning his against weight against Richard.

“Well, you know I do too,” and he must’ve, because he kissed him again, determined and deep, and Thomas wished he could stay forever. His spine tingled but Thomas paid it no mind, occupied. 

* * *

“Mr Barrow’s getting an awful lot of letters,” Daisy said innocently as she rolled dough. She was covered head to toe in flower just like Mrs Patmore was. Even her fiery orange and pink wings were covered in the white powder.

She had wrapped them securely to her back with a soft but sturdy beige shawl, as was desired for anyone working in the kitchen.

Phyllis, who had been asked to help out, had to take this safety precaution too. Even though she was just cleaning pots and cutting fruit, she had borrowed a white shawl and wrapped it snugly around her waist.

They were preparing for the luncheon of tomorrow, where both the Crawley sister would be attending with their invitees. They were expecting around thirty guests and everything served needed to be fresh, so it was all hands on deck. Phyllis didn’t mind, she had already finished sewing her ladyship's dress days ago. 

“Oh?” Phyllis simply replied to Daisy, not wanting to give anything away.

She was right though. The past nine months or so Phyllis had noticed there had been quite a noticeable influx in letter send to Thomas. Though Phyllis didn’t think anyone else had noticed, she had seen they were all written in the same handwriting. 

“Well don’t act stupid, you’ve seen it too,” Daisy glowered, not happy with her response. 

“Daisy! Language!” Mrs Patmore chastised her. Daisy pouted. 

“Well I’m just curious! He gets way more letters then he used to, and he posts a lot too.” 

This was also true. For every letter he got he send one, correspondence with whomever he was writing to apparently going smoothly. And Phyllis couldn’t deny she wasn’t curious too. She had tried asking him (multiple times actually) but he had been tight-lipped and quick to change the subject. 

“Well, I don’t know either Daisy,” she indulged her, “I’ve asked but he won’t give me an answer.”

Daisy pouted thoughtfully at this, perhaps she had hoped that Phyllis had known, and would tell her the gossip. Mrs Patmore was having none of it.

“You see? Even Miss Baxter doesn’t know. Mr Barrow’s a very private man, Daisy. You shouldn’t be in his business!” She put a large baking dish down on the counter with a loud _thump._

“Instead you should ask yourself why you aren’t working on the strawberry tarts yet and get a move on!”

Daisy just rolled her eyes, not fazed by Mrs Patmore’s commands and tones anymore. She was capable and experienced in the kitchen and her confidence was beginning to catch up with her skill. It delighted Phyllis, who, at Daisy’s age, could have used some of her self-assuredness. 

“I will find out you know,” Daisy muttered under her breath while focussing on the task at hand, “This once _I’ll_ be the one who finds out the secret.” 

And Phyllis just hoped she would let her in on it if she did. 

* * *

Rich never asked him about his ‘wing situation’, which Thomas appreciated. It wasn’t like he was never going to tell him, or that he was worried about what he was going to say (he trusted him too much for that, which was very strange, and very unfamiliar indeed), it was more that he… he wanted it to come up organically, unrushed, not forced.

Maybe it was because of the ungracious circumstances under which half of the fucking household had found out he didn’t have wings, that he was now so set on having Richard find out _through him_.

It was late in the night, they had spent the evening at a bar, chatting and laughing and being together. They pretended to be a bit drunker than they were, and no one blinked an eye at the hands slapping each other’s knee or the occasional arm around the shoulder.

The few hours of afternoon that they had the time to spend together they had spent in the park, one which Richard was determent to go to. He had written about it in his letters weeks before. It had been kind of sappy, but they were allowed that, in Thomas’ opinion.

_‘Have you ever been to Elm gardens? I think it might be the most beautiful place on earth and I cannot bear the thought of having to wait so long to take you there.’_

It wasn’t like they had to wait _that_ long, half days came around semi often and Richard, as second valet, had a more forgiving schedule. They had still beamed at each other when they met on the train station, though.

And Richard had been right about the park, it was exceedingly gorgeous. Richard told him stories about how he used to go there as a child and it had only made the place more wonderful to him.

When they were walking somewhere quiet, shielded by trees and the like, they had tentatively reached for each other’s hands.

The time had passed too quickly, and suddenly their trains were leaving in an hour.

The streets were quiet (it being a quite dreary Tuesday night and all) only interrupted by the sounds coming out of the bar behind them and their footsteps on the wet stones. Richard was talking about his childhood cat, had been for almost ten minutes now. Had it been any other person, Thomas wouldn’t have been amused. Richard wasn’t any other person though.

“-he was a mean thing, but never to me. Oh, and not to my mother, he adored mum. My dad on the other hand…” Richard chuckled a little, and Thomas couldn’t help whatever face he was making at him as they walked down the street.

Richard caught sight of him and huffed, turning away again.

“Stop looking at me like that,” but he didn’t sound convincing at all.

Thomas laughed and their hands brushed.

“I’ll try to,” he said and Richard looked humoured as he shoved his hands in his pockets, even though it wasn’t cold at all.

“Now tell me something about you,” Richard smiled, “Your childhood. Did you have a pet?”

And it was a normal question, something so inconspicuous you could ask a stranger. Things were rarely easy with Thomas though. He tried to not slow his pace or let something show on his face, but Richard was _Richard_ so of course he noticed.

Rich sobered only a little and tilted his head, encouraging and earnest, but he didn’t tell Thomas he didn’t have to, or that he could leave it.

Thomas had found that Richard had gotten it into his head that it was important for him to know everything there was to be known about Thomas. It made Thomas recalcitrant at the same time it made him weak in the knees. There was something in him begging to be known and understood, the last part of him that hadn’t learnt its lesson yet. 

Thomas huffed at him, shaking his head nonchalantly. Richard just looked on expectantly.

“It’s not at all interesting,” and Thomas hoped (but knew better) that Rich would drop it at that. It was starting to rain a little, and Thomas readjusted his coat.

“Are you saying my story wasn’t interesting?” Richard asked in faux offence.

Quite on the contrary, Thomas was enamoured by all the stories Richard told, this one included. He liked to imagine him in the situations he described, young and unknown to Thomas, and Thomas wanted to know more, always, so perhaps he could understand why Richard was pushing him. Didn’t make it any less annoying though.

“You know I wouldn’t.”

And he did need him to know. Needed him to know that he did care a lot, and that he liked hearing about his life, about him, he just didn’t want to do it in return. Selfish maybe, but it wasn’t a crime to keep your cards close to your chest.

Richard grinned at him.

“Yes,” he conceded. 

But he didn’t say more than that, still not giving Thomas the mercy he thought he deserved. And as the silence stretched on, Thomas sighed.

“We didn’t have any pets,” said, trying to sound irate.

Richard’s pace slowed slightly, as if he was surprised his nagging actually paid off. Thomas saw him looking at him from the corner of his eyes, earnest with arched brows, willing him to go on. Thomas didn’t look straight at him, though.

“My mother wasn’t too keen on them.”

Thomas swallowed. How long had it been since he spoke of his mother so casually ?

“My sister had always wanted one,” and he allow himself a tiny grin there, thinking about Margaret and pretending it didn’t sting. He saw Richard listening raptly, captivated by his story. It made Thomas feel strange. He cleared his throat.

“A cat, that is.”

Richard nodded.

“The superior choice,” which made Thomas feel a little less on edge.

“Yes,” though he didn’t agree. He would get into it later.

“A man in the village had asked Margaret- my oldest sister,” Thomas clarified, and Richard looked as if it was the most important bit of information in the world, “he asked her to walk the dog for a week. He couldn’t for some reason, can’t recall.”

He waved his hand flippantly, but it didn’t even _feel_ convincing.

He had been young then, and there wasn’t much he remembered from that time. Some things he did, though.

“Margaret,” the name still felt familiar on his lips, which shouldn’t surprise him but it did, “was over the moon. She was so excited but it uhm…”

He smiled bitterly, kicking the road they walked on. He felt Richard beside him, perhaps regretting having ever asked. It was just a question about pets, why could nothing be simple?

_Sorry if this is more then you bargained for , should’ve given you a heads up._

But Richard brushed his elbow against his arm and spoke softly, “I can imagine,” he said.

A sign he wanted Thomas to keep talking, and Thomas didn’t know why it meant so much. He smiled, but not at R yet.

“Yeah… Well anyway, long story short, mother found out.”

It rarely hurt thinking about things like this, why did it hurt talking about them? He was going to talk to Phyllis about this, maybe she could shed some light. If anyone would, she would know.

It started to rain a little harder.

“ ‘t was strange, she was usually so apathetic, so…” he couldn’t find the words to describe his mother that would do her justice. He cleared his throat.

“She swore the animal would make her sick, or that the dog would bite her or something. She forbid her to go. Don’t remember if she actually did or not.”

He let out some air.

“I think she did.”

He wouldn’t tell Richard about what happened after that, about how his parents reacted after they found out Margaret had not only disregarded their authority, but also had taken Thomas with her once. He wouldn’t tell him; maybe ever, maybe yet.

Richard huffed, amused.

“Good for her,” he said, and Thomas had to look at him to gage the mood.

He felt unsure. Unsure about his emotions thinking back on it, and how he felt telling Richard, but Richard, _shining, golden Richard_ , just looked charmed and interested.

Thomas didn’t know why that meant so much, didn’t know why it felt like his heart was opening and blossoming like a flower.

“Yeah,” he breathed back, and Thomas wondered what Richard thought of this strange conversation. Nothing bad. Never anything bad.

Richard smiled at him, fond, “I’m glad you told me.”

Thomas stopped walking, and looked at him with wonder, really looking at him. His kind eyes, the wrinkles around them, the strands of damp hair falling in his face, the curve of his lips.

Richard stopped too, regarding Thomas’ expression with tenderness and a little pity, perhaps.

Thomas didn’t care.

He broke eye contact to scan the streets, they were empty, and without any warning, he pushed Richard into the alley behind him. Richard let out a yelp at the sudden movement, trying not to trip as Thomas manhandled him.

Even before Rich’s back hit the wall behind him, Thomas took the other man’s jaw with in his gloved hand and crashed their lips together.

He pressed his body against his, and he felt Richard’s surprise melt into something else as he smiled and chuckled against Thomas’ mouth.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you” Thomas breathed midst it all, and Richard tightened his hold around his waist, deepening the kiss as if to shut him up.

The rain was falling heavy now, drumming on the cobbled streets, making sure that no one in their right mind was out in the streets. Thomas could feel his clothes getting soaked, and if he wasn’t so occupied he would wonder if it would make him sick. He shivered once, a twinge running up his spine.

He felt something warm encompass him from both sides, and though he could still hear the rain falling in the streets, he didn’t feel it anymore. He opened his eyes a little and breathed out. There was only green and blue and purple and _Richard,_ shielding him from the elements and keeping him close.

One of Richards’ hands was on Thomas’ jaw, their arms crossing as they both held each other’s face, warm and steady. The arm he had put around Thomas’ waist slowly moved up, hand settling on his upper back. Thomas didn’t flinch, didn’t arch his back, he didn’t freeze. He kissed the corner of Rich’s mouth, trailing quick kisses from his lips to his cheek to his jaw.

“I’ll tell you,” he said in between them, “I’ll tell you. I promise I will.”

And it was enough for Richard, who just chuckled again and hugged and kissed him again and again and again.

* * *

“Daisy, I need you to tell me honestly. What were you doing in my office?”

Thomas’ tone was stern but not unkind and very, _very_ defensive.

He was nervous, of course, he liked to keep things private, and for good reasons.

Daisy had the sense to look ashamed at least, eyes on the wooden floor and wringing her hands. Elsie almost felt bad for her, but she couldn’t have turned a blind eye to finding Daisy rummaging through drawers in the butler’s desk. Daisy was struggling to come up with an explanation, opening and closing her mouth without making a sound which was quite the comical sight, actually.

Thomas didn’t seem to share the same amusements. He huffed and jiggled his leg. 

“Daisy, I expect answer from you. Now.”

He was clenching his jaw and Elsie knew he was biting his tongue to keep him from snapping at her.

He had always had a soft spot for Daisy. Elsie wondered how far it would take her now. Daisy dropped her hands to her side.

“I didn’t mean any harm, I promise,” she sounded defiant which Elsie wished she didn’t because Thomas bristled at the tone.

“I wasn’t going to _steal_ anything.” 

She said it as if it was preposterous, not knowing that the man she was addressing had done his fair share of that.

Elsie sighed before Thomas could dignify Daisy’s comment with a response. 

“Then, pray tell Daisy, what _were_ you doing in Mr Barrows office?”

If she sounded impatient that would be because she was. What was the girl thinking, really, snooping around in the butler’s office? 

Daisy pouted like a child, clearly embarrassed at being caught and even more so at having so explain herself. 

“I just,” she started, voice exasperated, cheeks burning, “I just wanted to know, for once.” 

Elsie huffed at the vague answer but Thomas allowed it, because it was Daisy. 

“What did you want to know?” he asked patiently and authoritative and Elsie would laugh if she wasn’t so annoyed, because it didn’t really suit him. 

Daisy looked up at this, still mighty unsure and embarrassed, but she stopped fidgeting and straightened her back a bit. 

“I know I shouldn’t have, I was just so curious, and I- I’m always excluded in these stupid secrets, and now- I wanted to be the one to know I guess.” 

The rambling non-answer was probably the worst thing she could’ve said, because Thomas eyes had widened and his shoulders had slumped a bit; he was presuming the worst, and Elsie could hardly blame him. She was uncomfortable too. Granted she didn’t truly know where this was going, but Thomas had his secrets for a reason. Daisy, noting it had gone quiet grimaced as she reached into her apron and pulled out an envelope. A letter. 

Thomas’ face had gone ashen in abject horror and she wanted to clip Daisy ‘round the ears for it. 

“I just wanted to find out who you were writing,” she explained meekly.

“What did you read?” and Thomas’ voice was cold and demanding now, and Elsie could see how he dug his nails into his palm. She decided not to interject. 

Daisy was silent for a moment, lips trembling pitifully. “Nothin’.” 

Thomas took a deep breath through his nose, chest expanding, as he turned his head to look at Elsie. He was unsure of what to do now, if he should take Daisy’s word for it or keep asking but risk making her even more suspicious. 

“I swear it,” Daisy said noticing their wariness. And that would have to do really.

Thomas stuck out his hand, glaring at Daisy as she hurried forward and put the letter into his open palm. He snatched it from her grasp and quickly put the letter back into his desk. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he regarded the young woman in front of him. 

“What you did was foolish, and unacceptable,” Thomas spoke after a moment and Daisy shrunk a bit at it.

“I am not used to you acting that way, Daisy. I’m terribly disappointed.” And Elsie believed it, Thomas and Daisy liked each other, and this was a betrayal of brittle trust on Thomas’ part. Daisy’s wings were visibly shaking, even while wrapped so tightly to her back.

“I’m sorry Thomas,” and strangely Thomas allowed Daisy to use his Christian name, “I was just… So curious.” 

Elsie let out an exasperated breath at that, “Well curiosity killed the cat,” she said, irked. 

Daisy just nodded at this. Thomas made a face. 

“Why couldn't you just…” and his voice wasn’t that of a butler reprimanding his staff anymore, just Thomas who had been secretive and hounded for all his live and had been reminded _why_ by someone he considered a friend.

“You could’ve just… Asked.”

Elsie looked at him worriedly at that, because while he was safe in this house, and she doubted Daisy would ever do anything to intentionally harm anyone, it still stood that the less people knew about him, the better. Daisy meanwhile looked like she wanted to be swallowed by the earth. 

“I- I don’t know,” and both Daisy and Thomas looked miserable now, “I’m so sorry, truly.” 

And maybe Daisy did know that there was something in these letters that made then special, made them dangerous, because she looked at Thomas with earnest desperation to let him know she was speaking the truth. Thomas shook his head. 

“Just don’t do it again.” 

Daisy nodded frantically. 

“Well then,” Elsie spoke up, “I’ll deal with her and get her out of your hair.” 

Thomas just pinched the bridge of his nose and waved his hand dismissively at her, clearly done with the conversation. Elsie grabbed Daisy by the arm and dragged her out of the office towards the kitchen where she and Mrs Patmore would find some kind of punishment for her. 

Daisy stopped in her tracks as they rounded the corner and slapped a hand over her mouth. Tears were forming in her eyes but Elsie wasn’t having it. 

“No, no. No crying Daisy that won’t do anyone any good.” Daisy ignored her.

“I’m such a fool.” 

Her voice was shaky and frail, and Elsie patted her arm, for she knew Daisy hadn’t meant any real harm, in the end. 

“You did something foolish and immature, but Mr Barrow will forgive you in time,” because Elsie thought he would. She wasn’t sure, but she thought so.

Daisy nodded and swallowed, regaining her composure a bit. 

“I will make it right, I promise.” 

Elsie smiled at her.

The days after that Daisy continuously came to Thomas’ office with tea and biscuits, and on Friday Elsie found them talking in the kitchen again. 

* * *

John could be accused of not being the most observant man, he wouldn't deny that, but you had to be _blind_ to not notice what was going on.

That’s why it surprised him he seemed to be the only one, or at least one of the few who had at least an inkling of what was transpiring in Mr Barrows private life. 

First it was the letters. Barrow went from getting maybe two letters a year from distant relatives or friends to receiving and sending letters at least twice a _week._ Every letter carried the same address and the butler seemed to thaw no matter the previous mood every time he opened one.

He was horribly secretive about them too, daring to open one in the servants hall only when it was quiet and no one could look over his shoulder. 

Then there was of course the influx of half days he was taking. He always made sure the family was either gone or well provided for and not needing, and then he’d go off to lord knows where (although John thought he knew too, didn’t he) and come back late in the evening. Things like tedious paperwork that a butler ought to complete on those quiet days, were now worked on at night or in quiet hours in between hard work. Every time Barrow went out for a day he would have bags under his eyes and a bad temper for a week. John was the only one who took notice, or so he had thought.

And then there was of course the time Mr Ellis himself decided to visit.

It was in the weeks wherein summer slowly said her last goodbyes and the first leaves started to change colour that Mrs Hughes had opened the door to the man that John recognized instantly. It was the royal valet that had made eyes at Thomas (and vice versa) and subsequently the suspected mystery correspondent.

Mrs Hughes welcomed him warmly and told him to sit down while she went to get him some tea. 

Mr Ellis did as she said and greeted John and Anna with a confident air. He had been reading a newspaper by the fire, and Anna was aggressively poking needles into one of lady Mary’s more peculiar hats. They both greeted him back and Anna asked what it was she remembered him of again.

He explained he had been here as valet for the king, and Anna snapped her fingers as she recounted the way he and Mr Barrow got the king’s footmen out of Downton, and thanked him for she hadn’t had the chance to do so prior. Ellis had laughed charmingly at that, and they talked some more until John asked what it was the other man was doing here. He could’ve been a little less blunt, but Ellis didn’t take offence and smiled. 

“I’ve been invited to join for dinner, actually,” he said.

And though it was uncommon for guests to dine in the servants hall it wasn’t unheard of, and actually quite a welcomed source of amusement, so Anna smiled and told him he was in luck; Mrs Patmore was making her favourite dish tonight. 

Daisy walked into the room carrying a tray with three cups of tea and biscuits, answering all their ‘thank you’s’ with a ‘no worries’ of her own. She turned to look at Mr Ellis who introduced himself to her. 

“Yeah, I remember you,” she said, eyes a little squinted, “You were here with the royal family.” 

Ellis confirmed and Daisy nodded at this. 

“Are you the guest that Mrs Patmore said’d be joining tonight?” Again, there was a something investigative in her tone, and John saw Anna noticed too. 

“Yes,” Mr Ellis said, not noticing or not deterred, “I suppose that would be me.”

And Daisy, who John had thought would be happy with an interesting guest at her table just nodded again. By god did she… did she have her suspicions too? Were truly the only ones in the house who put two and two together _he_ and _Daisy_? 

The young woman had left after that and John and Anna had made some more small talk with the valet. Mr Ellis was in the middle of a sentence before he suddenly straightened in his chair, his wings opening and tense as he turned his head to the door opening. John didn’t have to wonder why for long. 

“-looked like she would explode, she was so angry,” Mr Barrow’s voice carried through the halls, and Mr Ellis’ smile widened. 

“Well I think lady Mary acted appropriately,” they heard Mrs Hughes answer back and suddenly the pair was in the dining room and Mr Barrow froze and Mrs Hughes face was carefully blank and Mr Ellis just grinned. 

“Hello,” Ellis simply said, and Barrow looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, but his lips curled and the lines around his eyes deepened. 

“I invited him,” Mrs Hughes said casually, “I wanted to thank him for helping us with the royal visit. And I heard you and Mr Ellis are friends.”

It was a good enough excuse, and certainly good enough for them. Barrow tried to fight back a smile and Ellis grinned back. 

Mr Ellis raised his brow, “I hope I’m not a bother.” 

Mr Barrow sucked in his cheeks and raised his chin, regarding him coolly.

“We’ll see soon enough.”

* * *

The dinner had been splendid, Anna had successfully acquired seconds and Mr Ellis had charmed the entire staff around his finger. His stories were interesting and he answered all the questions that were thrown at him with grace; from what the kings favourite colour was, to if he was seeing someone. 

At the latter question he had chuckled a little and John was sure he had nudged Mr Barrow’s foot under the table. 

“Well, it’s complicated,” he had said, “I fancy someone but… well you know how it is. Fear they might be too good for me.” 

And it had sounded a little teasing, and on cue the butler had rolled his eyes and assured him that whoever he had taken a liking to must feel the same way. The conversation had continued as Mr Molesey asked something about the king again, but John was too busy trying to see read Mr Ellis and Mr Barrow’s expressions from the corner of his eyes. To his surprise he saw Mrs Hughes and Miss Baxter exchanging mischievous glances, and when he turned to Anna she was looking at her plate with a pleased, soft smile. Even Andy, bloody _Andy_ , his eyes darted from Ellis to Barrow. So truly everyone had known, except John. Of course. 

* * *

“Thank you for coming,” he smiled, real but not too wide, “That was fun.”

Richard smiled back, all sparkling blue eyes and smile lines. He wished he’d known him for longer, wished he could’ve seen the lines settling in and maybe even playing part in their creation. Wished he knew where the creases in his brow came from and the crowfeet at his eyes.

“Thank you for having me,” he said, and it was a goodbye, because it always was, but Thomas, for all their practicing, still wasn’t good with them.

“Well, you certainly made yourself popular with the maids,” he laughed, and it was a bit forced, but there was genuine (albeit fleeting) happiness behind it. 

Richard huffed at that, his breath billowing white in the cold evening air and Thomas was utterly entranced by it. He shoved his hands in his pocket and turned a little to the left, regarding the edge of the woods which was barely visible in the dark.

“They weren’t the one I was trying to impress,” he said, a bit impish, and his eyes met Thomas’ again. They were so soft and bright that for a moment Thomas thought the other man would lean in and kiss him, and Thomas didn’t know if he would stop him if he did.

They were out in the open, they shouldn’t. People were still awake and knew where they were. His eyes trailed over Richard’s face, taking everything in as best as he could, for they didn’t know how long it would be until they saw each other again.

“Oh? Were you trying to impress someone?” Thomas asked, pretend aloofness just coquettish in the end. 

Richard’s wings opened and closed a little.

“It was hard to be just friendly all night.”

Thomas could say the same. It had been lovely to have Richard come over for dinner and introducing him (properly) to Mrs Hughes and Phyllis, who had approved, (of course, how could one not) but it had been hard to pretend with Richard.

Thomas had caught himself staring at him when he was talking to the others, answering their questions in such a charming manner. Listening to the question with an open expression, turning the question into something it hadn’t been before, an answering it without actually answering it. Thomas was delighted by it. Oh, he must’ve looked like he was swooning, because he was. He had tried to school his features into a servant blank for almost half of the dinner, and he hoped no one noticed.

He huffed.

“I can assure you, Mr Ellis, you weren’t the only one suffering this plight.”

At that Richard stepped a bit closer, the fog of their breaths intermingling. Thomas wanted to grab his hand, but didn’t. Rich’s face wasn’t serious, but a bit of the mischief had left it.

“We didn’t see each other for nine weeks and five days,” Richard murmured, and it did seem like an age when he said it like _that_ , as if it was the greatest injustice one could face. 

Thomas was inclined to agree. 

“Counting the days, are we,” Thomas replied as if he hadn’t, voice smooth because he was trained at that. 

But he knew his face betrayed him, giddy and romanced, and it didn’t matter because Richard was suddenly even closer now and his _green blue purple_ wings were enfolding their forms, like Richard often liked to do.

It made Thomas feel special, only his sister, mother and Phyllis had hugged him like this. Oh, and then there was Phillip, who had had the same affinity for it as Richard, and had been the first to do it in years.

Hugging like that was an incredibly intimate move, but not unheard of between parents and children, or siblings or just very, _very_ good friends. But the people in the house behind them knew what he was. And if they would be peeking, or walk past, they would know what it meant. Thomas didn’t think he could deal with that.

But he was transfixed on Richard’s eyes, blue and kind and soft and warm and so incredibly fond, and when he looked at him like that it always made Thomas wonder _why._

“The minutes,” Richard said softly and Thomas couldn’t lie. 

“Me too.” 

Richard smile fell a little and he moved a hand to Thomas’ cheek, eyes trailing down before falling on his mouth. 

Thomas wanted to stop him, remind him of where they were, but what power does one have in the face of such a thing?

Richard leaned in and just as Thomas felt his eyes flutter closed, Richard stopped, faces close and eyes locked. 

“Cash or check?” Richard breathed, air warm against his lips. 

And how unfair life was, and how he wished he could give in a be weak, like all the rest of them. He wanted to show him cash, give him a wordless answer to his question, so ardent and devout he would never have to ask again, but they couldn’t, not here. Not when everything was going well for them at the moment. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, aching.

So, “Check,” he whispered back, as softly as he could, and his heart bemoaned it.

Richard just looked at him for a moment, holding his gaze, soft and tender, before he smiled and pulled away.

Thomas shivered at the sudden cold that wrapped around him now that Richard’s wings weren’t protecting him against it anymore, and he had to stop himself from stepping forward, back to him. He wrapped his arms around himself instead. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Rich said then, and it was almost like they could pretend it didn’t hurt. 

* * *

“Are you alright Mr Barrow,” Phyllis tried to ask it as softly as she could, knowing Thomas would hate other people overhearing. He chewed on the chicken Mrs Patmore had prepared for supper and looked at her, frowning. 

“I am,” he simply said, but there was a warning in there too. Phyllis wanted to drop it, but it was the beginning of flu season and Thomas was looking even paler than usual, poking his food and only taking small bites. She smiled at him in a way and he sighed, understanding that this wasn’t over yet. 

Indeed, after dinner she decided to follow him as he excused himself from the table. She caught up to him in the hallway. She wrapped her hand around his upper arm and he looked at her, grumpy but unsurprised. 

“Would it kill you to let me be for once?”

Phyllis just hooked her arm in his and let her left wing enfold his back, “I just don’t want you to fall ill, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas rolled his eyes as they walked down the halls. 

“How would your incessant nagging prevent me from falling ill?” and there was a little bite in it, so Phyllis knew he was defensive. She just kept walking at his side.

“Well, at least I’d be prepared. You get so grumpy when sick.” Phyllis couldn’t help a smile. 

Thomas halted a bit, indignant, but before he could embarrass himself Phyllis put her other hand on his arm. He huffed and they picked up the pace again. 

“I’m going outside,” he told her when they reached the door, “Just for a walk. You can join me if you like?” 

Phyllis considered it, but November had brought a biting cold as accomplice and she had forgotten her coat in her room, so she shook her head.

“Do you think that is a good idea,” she asked reproachful, “What if you catch a cold?”

Thomas just sighed as he buttoned his coat. “I’ll be fine,” he grunted, “I’m just going for a short one.” 

And she probably still looked unconvinced, because Thomas sighed and rolled his eyes again as he yanked a scarf from the hat stand. 

“You’re happy now?” 

Phyllis just laughed because he was ridiculous and stood one her toes to kiss him on the cheek, at which he tried to hide a grin. 

“Goodnight, Thomas,” she said.

“Goodnight, Phyllis,” he smiled back, warmly, and then he was out the door with a quick gust of November wind. 

Phyllis watched him walk away through the window, the darkness engulfing his silhouette, but not before she saw him roll his shoulders sharply. She bit her lip and went upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *close to the mic* I like it when thomas swears. Thank you. 
> 
> so FOLKS this was chapter deux! please leave Hate- or Fan-mail in correspondence with ur feelings about it, that would be Much Appreciated. (also spelling or grammer errors svp, i am not a native englsih speaker and we be strugglingggg)  
> I read all of your lovely comments on the last one, and i truly wanted to reply to them all, but i think ill leave thanking you all individually to the last chapter. For now just thank you guys So So much, i am so happy abt the positive response this got, its all very motivating.  
> Next chapter will Speed Things Up only i have no idea when it will be finished. I want to have this whole fic done before the new year, and i think theres two chapters left to go, so.... somewhere in that time period.
> 
> Again, hope you enjoyed and thakns! see u soon!


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